Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Putting Light to Her Darkness

Refusing to accept that this is the best it gets became the drive that pushed her fence and created a gate that was protected with Faith, that it was...

Building skills and making tools became something she could consume,
When did she stop dancing?

A passion inside her that burned like the fire, as it transforms everything it touches...creating a new form of the norm, she walked her path as a woman scorn, for too long

Letting go of what was and jumping into what is, became an experience. Being present, made sense. He said, "The problem with people is that they're always trying to get somewhere... they forget to be in the moment..."

Slowly I stepped into my own skin again and looked around at the paper thin, walls of my existence. The world wanted to show me some reality that hit me, what are we doing?

To live a single day in a humans life has so much more potential than the destruction of our plots...
the ground that we walk...
the waters that we've got... need love...

She looks to the sky above and the thoughts begin to flood, her imagination.

Is that all that we live in?

A childhood of exploration without stagnation left her mind to build up walls, with secret passageways to a state of Grace where her dreams seemed to bloom and fears were erased

If only she could reach that place...
I'm pretty sure all poetry has left me.
As if it just packed up and hit the road.
Like my words no longer dance or sing.
Like they have forgotten all melodies.
Assimilated tone deafness.
Compound letdowns retract vulnerabilities.
Brick walls and leather skin replace possibilities.
Reckless love and whimsical fantasies,
Replaced by ***** diapers and piles of laundry.
Consonants and vowels blend to mush.
Aches and accomplishments are one in the same.
All of my agony has turned to apathy,
And I wonder.
How could I let poetry walk away from me?
How have I become so broken that I can no longer write?
Words have no ability to woe me.
Vocabulary is no longer my saving grace.
Void of creativity.
Like somehow life has gotten too messy for me to express.
Series of catastrophes and celebrations run together.
And I feel lost.
And I feel blessed.
But oh so empty.
Poetry come back to me.
Next page